A Darkly Dangerous Leap of Faith
by EyesBeClosed
Summary: Spoilers for the Season Six finale.  A new case forces Debra to turn to Dexter, even after the revelation makes her question everything.  Unfortunately, Dexter's Dark Passenger may prevent him from helping.  M – strong language, violence and dark themes.
1. Leap of Faith

**A/N: I don't own anything. Dexter belongs to Showtime, CBS, and Jeff Lindsey. Specifically, the italicized quote, "You can't be a killer and a hero," is from the Season One finale, 'Born Free.' The rest of the story is mine and just for fun.**

I wake up to my cellphone buzzing on my nightstand.

"Christ on a stick," I mumble, as I press the palm of my hand to my eye. I didn't drink any beer last night, yet my head still pounds like I have a motherfucker of a hangover. Then, I remember what happened in the old abandoned church. I dash to the toilet to hurl my guts out.

When I return from the bathroom, my cellphone is buzzing again. Of course, its Dexter Morgan, my foster brother who I now know is also happens to be a vigilante killer.

"What?" I snarl.

"It's ready. You know where. Deb, look—"

"Do me a favor," I interrupt. "Stay the fuck out of my sight today."

I hang up without letting him get another word in. It's easier to be angry than heartbroken or horrified at this point.

* * *

><p>When I pull up to Lisa Marshal's house a half an hour later, I call it in without even bothering to go inside. I don't want to think about DDK or his poor, clueless sister or his dozen or so other victims ever again. Honestly, the thought of them makes me sick. I will deliver a few pre-planned, bullshit remarks to the press that will make even Captain LaGuerta proud and then case closed. I'll finally be done with it.<p>

Which means I can turn my attention to more pressing matters, namely Dexter.

Even I will begrudgingly admit that he did me a favor today. He bought me some time by transforming his neat homicide into a messy suicide. Now I can truly focus on containing a much more dangerous menace: the man I thought I was in love with.

It is only a matter of minutes before the whole team—except Dex because, of course, I just told him to stay the fuck out of my sight—arrives with a circus of hungry reporters following in their wake.

Here we go, I guess...

I try to crack a smile and look pleased, or, at the very least, a little relieved that one more psycho cocksucker has been removed from the streets of Miami, but in reality I probably just look pale and slightly nauseated because that's how I feel. I suck at faking emotions.

"Congratulations, Morgan," LaGuerta says after its all said and done. "You might have a bright career ahead of you after all."

I nod dumbly at her veiled insult because I am both impressed and appalled that this has all worked out in my favor. Leave it to my big bro to save the fucking day again. Yet, I can't help but wonder how many other times Dex might have pulled one over on his own department. Last night was not the work of an amateur. This morning isn't either.

* * *

><p>For the very first time in my career as lieutenant, I am almost thankful when I finally return to my new office. Almost. Because as soon as I sit down at my desk, I realize that the enormous tower of mind-numbing paperwork staring me in the face isn't going to help me clear my mind. My hands tremble at the thought of what might await me. Any reference to an unsolved disappearance or homicide—any at all—could push me over the edge to my harrowing demise.<p>

Immediately, I evacuate my office in search of a distraction. As I pass my brother's empty office, I consider slipping inside and inspecting his personal items. I'm desperate to find that missing puzzle piece, the one that will make this whole fucking mess make sense. But I resist the urge. I stare instead and, consequently, crash into a co-worker like a bumbling idiot.

"Fuck me," I say before looking up. "Oh. Sorry, Quinn."

"Is that an order, Lieutenant?" Quinn winks.

"No, definitely not," I assure him with a half-smile because this is the first truly normal experience I've encountered all day. Frankly, I had been sick of Quinn's pity party and its shitty affect on his detective work. Yet, I also hadn't had the heart to suspend him without pay; I felt at least partially responsible. So now I'm relieved to see him back to his old self. "Hey, do you want to grab some coffee? I could really use a break. I can't get the stench of LaGuerta's perfume out of my office, and I don't think breathing it in is good for my health."

Quinn takes a beat too long to respond and I frown. I don't even consider the possibility that he might know this is bad idea.

"I take that back. You're going to grab some coffee with me. It's not a question. It's an order."

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant."

* * *

><p>Quinn and I fuck in the back of his parked car because it's all I can do to prevent myself from diving off a cliff. It's not entirely my fault. Quinn turns his eyes on me as soon as we reach his black Mercedes in the parking lot. He knows me well enough to sense something's wrong.<p>

Of course, I can't tell him anything, or I'll be charged as an accessory to a murder and Dexter and I will both end up in jail. So instead I say nothing as tears threaten to escape my eyes. I watch as questions form in his mind, but, for some reason, he knows not to ask them. Instead, he puts his arms around me because that's what friends do, even, apparently, after I laugh in their face for proposing and step all over their heart.

Then, he kisses me on the forehead and I'm vaguely aware that something like this has happened once before. It was right after Trinity had murdered Rita and Dex had said, "It was me," in their front yard. I had gone to Rita's house to clean up the blood and completely lost it because I didn't know what the fuck was going on with my brother and I couldn't help him. Quinn had been there too. He had comforted me.

Now it was happening all over again, except different. I didn't know what the fuck was going on with my brother—why he had killed DDK and how he had been capable of it and if I had the will to turn him in—and so I couldn't help him.

So, while I knew I shouldn't have tilted my head up and caught Quinn's lips with mine, I did because I needed him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Quinn probably still loved me, and I had never loved him. Instead, I had always loved... someone else. But that fact only made me need him now more than ever. I needed that someone else out of my head.

Quinn instantly knew what I wanted too, which would only make me feel that much more guilty later. He glanced around the parking lot to make sure no one else was around to witness Miami Metro's Homicide lieutenant screwing a subordinate, and then he opened the car door and let me drag him in by his shirt.

"We broke up over a month ago," Quinn finally says after we straighten up and finish not grabbing some coffee.

I nod and stare at my boots.

"Deb, look, I'm sorry for all the shit I've pulled lately. It won't happen again."

"Goddamn," I say, "you shouldn't be the one apologizing right now-"

"Don't, Deb," he interrupts. "There's no use in saying that what just happened here was a mistake. I get it now. This doesn't mean anything to you. It never did."

I meet his eyes, struck by his observation. "Good," I agree, guiltily confirming his suspicions.

We awkwardly try to exit the car at the same time, but then he motions like a fucking gentleman for me to go first. "Thanks for the coffee break, Lieutenant," he says in a falsely bright tone. Then, he leaves me in silence to contemplate the truth of his words—how little our relationship meant and how little our relationship was about him.

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging pats on the back for closing DDK's case while pretending to sort through paperwork at my desk. In actuality, I'm debating whether or not to schedule an appointment with my therapist. I could undoubtedly benefit from her insight and advice right now, but, really, what could I say?<p>

_I went to confess my undying love to my foster brother last night, but instead I watched him plunge a knife through my prime suspect's fucking heart. I was a little speechless at the time what with the blood spurting from DDK's chest cavity and the thick sheets of plastic that reminded me of my creepy as shit ex-fiancé, who, if you might recall, tried to murder me in the exact same sick ass way before Dex rescued me. So yeah, I was a little speechless at the time. What would you recommend I say to him tonight?_

As a high-ranking member of law enforcement, I'm fairly confident that patient confidentially does not extend to first-degree murder, especially when the killer in question is a co-worker and all signs indicate that he is fucking ace at offing people and will probably never otherwise be brought to justice.

Which I guess answers my question. I can schedule an appointment with Dr. Michelle Ross just as soon as I arrest my foster brother. I simply can't risk breaking down in her office or her seeing through my bullshit.

Yet, this conclusion only makes me feel more alone. In times like these I would usually turn to Dex, but that's obviously not an option. So my mind wonders to my former guide to Life's Fucking Hard Decisions: my good ole' dad.

Ever the model of a good cop, Dad would, of course, want me to turn Dex in. Because, my whole life, he had taught me how to hunt down killers and put them behind bars, and because, my whole life, he had taught me to have faith in law enforcement and the justice system. So it shouldn't matter for one second that Dexter killed a bad guy who was nothing if not the scum of the earth. It shouldn't matter.

Right?

My office phone rings, mercifully interrupting my jumbled thoughts.

"Lieutenant Morgan," I answer.

"Got it... What? Oh. Thanks... I don't know. I guess when the world didn't end, he felt pretty fucking embarrassed? Who the fuck cares? He was batshit... Okay, I'll be there soon... Yeah, I know I really don't have to, but I want to... Yes, I'm sure I fucking want to... Bye."

I grab my badge and gun and leave the office not a moment to soon.

* * *

><p>The sun is dipping below the horizon when I arrive in front of a shabby cabin at Miami Everglades Camping Grounds. Angel Batista greets me with a frown before he leads me inside where Detective Mike Anderson and Forensics are already sorting through the crime scene.<p>

Despite the sticky Miami heat, goose bumps climb up my back. "Motherfucker," I breathe as I scan my eyes across a gruesomely familiar sight. "We've seen this MO before." I can hardly believe my eyes. It's unmistakably the work of the Ice Truck Killer back to haunt me from the grave.

All of a sudden, I feel exactly like I did in the old abandoned church last night. The ground beneath my feet begins to sway again; the edge of the cliff feels uncomfortably close; for a moment, I consider screwing it all to hell and taking the damn jump myself.

But Batista's hand on my shoulder steadies me. I suck in a deep breath, pushing those thoughts away. I try to look at the situation from a detached perspective. I try not to take it personally and instead think about it logically. I start with the basic facts.

There are two severed legs, two severed arms, and a severed torso, but, of course, no hands or head. The body parts are bloodless and clean and deliberately arranged. They are laid out on a dining table, with each limb placed on a plate in a five-piece dinner set, except one plate, which supports a note. The torso rests on the center of the table like a freshly prepared slab of meat that's just been hunted in the wetlands out back.

"What does the note say?" I ask sideways to Batista. It's like a watching an impending train wreck that's about to derail your whole life. I can't tear my eyes away.

"It reads: _It's high time for a family feast_," Batista recites. "It doesn't make much sense, does it? I understand the hunting retreat at the cabin idea, but this? This is just messed up."

I mull it over in my head, but I'm not sure I agree. It _is _messed up. There is no argument about it. But that doesn't necessarily mean that it doesn't make sense. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it does make sense, in some sort of sick way, because it appears as though the killer is not only using the same techniques as Rudy, but also the same kind of effed up logic and sense of humor.

There is only one major, resounding difference. This isn't the body of a hooker.

Masuka confirms my suspicions as he strolls around the cabin's stuffy interior snapping photos. "The vic is male, Caucasian, and probably in his mid to late thirties," he informs me. "But we'll need to take him in, or what's left of him anyway, before we can get an ID."

Batista fills in more blanks. "The body was found here this evening by the owner who was doing his regular weekly inspection. It's a vacation rental, but he said it's been empty for a few months due to hard times. He said he couldn't remember seeing any unusual activity but that the park rangers keep a record of who comes and goes from the campgrounds."

"Good," I say. "We'll need those names."

Masuka shakes his head gravely as he shifts his focus to documenting the victim with his camera. "The poor soul. He'll never get any head again."

"No shit," I say impatiently. "Even I can see his goddamn head is missing."

"No," Masuka corrects, "he's missing something much worse than that—his dick. He's been castrated."

Anderson's ears perk up. "Maybe the killer was punishing him for something," he suggests.

Now _that_ doesn't make any sense. Rudy didn't punish his victims. He did these psycho games for fun. "If that's true, the killer is sending conflicting messages," I point out. "This is clearly the work of someone who _liked_ killing or why put together the fucking dinner display?" I wonder aloud. Because you can't have it both ways: _You can't be a killer and a hero._ "Unless we're missing something."

Everyone is silent and all eyes turn to me. I know what they are waiting for and it unexpectedly annoys the shit out of me. "Why would he copy the Ice Truck Killer's MO?" I ask finally, giving them permission to mention the serial killer I once intended to marry. "A copycat I can understand, but why five years later? Why now?"

_To fuck with my head at the worst possible time?_ I answer sardonically.

"You're right," Anderson agrees. "This is unusual. Copycats tend to strike when the killer they are emulating is still at large... So maybe it's not a copycat at all. Maybe the killer is simply taking a leaf out of somebody else's book to give himself an advantage."

The thought disturbs me on far too many levels. "So what you're suggesting is that this killer wants to kill like ITC but only better. He feels some sort of connection to him, but he doesn't want to go down the same road. He doesn't want to make the same mistakes," I surmise. "Shit," I say because it sounds all too close to home. "It means he definitely plans to kill again."

For the first time in the last 24-hours, I don't feel confused or torn been two evils—to sin and protect Dex or to sin and betray Dex. I know what's most important now: I can't let another sick fuck like Rudy get away with murder. I'm ready to take the leap even if it means doing the unthinkable.

* * *

><p>The fat, yellow moon sneers down at me as I open my apartment door and welcome my beloved foster sister Debra Morgan inside to arrest me, but I obstinately ignore its taunt.<p>

After spending the entire day with my son, I have just tucked Harrison into bed and kissed him goodnight for the last time. I have come to realize that despite her foul-mouth Deb's big heart will ultimately make her a wonderful mother, a much better parent than I could have ever been. It is this truth that has put me oddly at ease with my early retirement plans.

As a parting request, however, I will make Deb promise me one thing: that she will never let my son see Daddy Dexter again. I don't want him to watch my trial; I don't want him to visit me in prison; and I certainly don't want him to witness his old man expire on Old Sparky. Because Brother Sam was right: If there was ever any light in me, I have already passed it on to Harrison. Now it's time to make sure I never pass on my darkness.

Deb remains silent as I lead her into the living room. Ever the accommodating host, I motion for her to take a seat on the couch and retrieve her a beer from the fridge.

"Thanks for giving me the day," I say politely, sitting down next to her. "I have everything prepared now."

Of course, my first preparation was framing Travis Marshal's death in the wee hours of the morning. I had set up a plausible suicide by transporting his body to his sister's home and repositioning him to make it look as though he had stabbed himself in the heart on her kitchen floor. I had done an impressively convincing job too, if I do say so myself. His prints were on the knife, not to mention there was a lot of messy blood. However, the clincher was in what I had placed in his hand: a photo of his sister and he posing happily as I'm sure they once were. So the evidence composed a tragic tale. DDK had given up his life upon realizing that he had destroyed his sister's not for some higher calling like God, as he had once deluded himself into believing, but to satisfy the appetite of his own Dark Passenger. Or perhaps Miami Metro will just conclude that he was certifiably insane. Either way, I would ordinarily expect a pat on the back for my good work, if not for the unusually somber situation.

"Prepared?" Deb repeats.

"Yes, I have all the evidence you need laid out in my bedroom," I explain with a hint of pride. If someone's going to prepare the blood work that finally seals my fate, it sure as hell won't be Masuka.

Deb cocks her eyebrows, clearly surprised, but remains silent.

"Also, I've updated my will and drawn up some adoption paperwork," I add. "You're going to be Harrison's new mother."

Deb's next reaction is not at all what I anticipate. Her face flushes and she nearly chokes on her beer. I try to pat her on the back to help her clear her airways, but the physical contact only seems to make matters worse.

When she finally recovers she almost laughs, although I'm not sure what's funny. "You're not off the hook, Dex," she says at last. "Not by a long shot. But I also can't turn you in. _Yet_. I need you way too fucking much."

"You do?"

"Unfortunately," she admits, glaring at me with a strange sense of defeat in her eyes that I can only describe as the same genuine fondness that I inexplicably feel for her. She opens her mouth to say something else, but then she pauses and seems to reconsider. "I need you to help me catch a murderer."

Again, Deb is full of such surprises. I nod automatically, without really processing her request, in sheer wonderment.

Dearest Debra is taking a Darkly Dangerous leap of faith.

_In me_.

**Note: Thanks for reading and be sure to review! This is my first fanfic. Any comments, feedback, recommendations, etc. would be much appreciated! I plan to continue.**


	2. Appetite

"_What did I just do? I drove away a brother who accepts me, sees me, for an adopted sister who'd reject me if she knew and a foster father who betrayed me." _– Dexter, Episode 12: Born Free

**Appetite**

"Your sister has seen a glimpse of what you really are now. It's only a matter of time before she puts all of the pieces together. What's your plan, Dexter?"

I look up to see Harry, my foster father, standing in my kitchen, with his arms crossed. His stern gaze makes me feel small again like a young killer-in-training fumbling with a dull knife over the next-door neighbor's dog.

"First, I will help her solve this case like she asked," I reply, indignation rising. Where was Harry when Darling Debra discovered my dark deed in the old abandoned church? The Code hadn't prepared me for this. Every rule revolved around the first: don't get caught. No exceptions. But how could I silence Miami Metro's Homicide Lieutenant without doing to her what I do best? Which was, of course, out of the question. "Then, I'll have to figure something out, I guess."

"Well, you better think quickly, son, because the clock is ticking. You and I both know she will be watching your every move," Harry warns. "Your urge to hunt and satisfy your hunger will only grow stronger, but you can't risk her catching you again."

"I have plenty of time," I point out. "I only just killed Travis."

"But you didn't finish your ritual, and the ritual is everything for you."

The dark wings rub together and flutter inside my chest. He's right. Although we enjoyed our hunt and relished our kill, we never truly got to savor our meal. Deb had interrupted me just as we were getting started. Her presence had inexplicably replaced my sinister supper companion with an uncomfortable, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—a feeling that was entirely foreign to the deep, dark, empty void that is Dexter Morgan. In fact, my Dark Passenger stayed away even after she left. Poor Deserted Dexter had to doctor a crime scene all by himself like he had been stood up on a moonlit dinner date.

I shake my head recalling my foster's sister curious expression last night. Harry was right. She _had _caught a glimpse of me. But she hadn't outright rejected me yet; in fact, she had asked for my help. "Deb didn't arrest me. What makes you think she'll change her mind?"

Harry's dark eyes soften pityingly. "She's only human, Dexter." The meaning is implicit: she is only what I am not. He frowns and sighs, resigned to explaining human nature to me at a third grade level. "Your dark secret is an enormous burden to take on, and it's a lot to ask of her without giving her anything in return. I myself wasn't strong enough to shoulder it."

I metaphorically chew on his words for a few moments, but they taste rather...tasteless to a sociopath. My stomach rumbles, and I realize I'd much rather bite into a real-life banana, my favorite on-the-go morning snack. Unlike the ghost of Harry, I've actually got bills to pay.

* * *

><p>In spite of recent events, today starts out like an ordinary day. I waltz into Miami Metro with a box of delectable, blood clot-inducing doughnuts, and my colleagues swarm to me like crack addicts jonesing for their sugary fix. I enable them with a harmless, toothy grin. Never fear, I assure them. Dexter the Dealer is here to stay.<p>

I don't let Harry's words of caution weigh me down. In fact, I strideinto my office with a spring in my step. If the preverbal clock is ticking, I might as well savor my freedom. Today, I am just pleased to plop down into my office chair, and not Old Sparky. But in that moment, I am still naïve. I still can't comprehend my lucky fate: why exactly Deb saw what she saw and still let me go free.

Then, the sky comes crashing down as if to answer my unasked question. Masuka drops a stack of photos in front of me. I confidently, ignorantly slide them out.

"I'm not sure why the hot Morgan wants me to give you these since there's no blood," Masuka says, with a hint of suspicion, "but here you go anyway. I sent a tissue sample to the lab yesterday so we should get an ID soon..."

I nod dumbly as Masuka exits stage left. I had stopped listening halfway through our conversation, as soon as my eyes and ears made sense of what _we _were truly beholding. No blood. Those two little words had only helped to derail my already unhinged brain.

Alone now, I spread out the photos for a clearer picture. My Dark Passenger and I whole-heartedly admire what we see: precise, clean, beautiful cuts, arranged with equal amounts of detached irony and careful skill. It's the work of a true artist, one who's not afraid to be seen.

It's the work of my brother, Brian Moser.

I swallow. My eyes scan over the note Masuka has also documented: _It's high time for a family feast_. A sudden wave of giddiness spreads through me. I take a deep, steadying breath, and attempt to recover a semblance of logical thought because Dexter the Unflappable never succumbs to hysterics.

My brother is dead. He's as dead as Harry. I of all people should be confident in his demise; he died by my hand, after all. His ghostly self even recently accompanied me on a road trip.

So this killer isn't Brian... He's just a fellow traveler and a fan boy. Are we disappointed or relieved?

I reread the note: _It's high time for a family feast_. I frown. The time for Brian and I to bond, as adults, certainly hadn't lasted long. He was a little too preoccupied with killing Deb for my taste, which was unfortunate because Brian fully supported my extracurricular activities. Will Deb ever truly understand me like my brother? If her gag-reflex the other evening was any indication, it's highly doubtful.

A cold chuckle suddenly interrupts my train of thought because my Dark Passenger has just realized the obvious. How many other serial killer families live in Miami? Our new friend doesn't just admire my brother; he's also paying homage to me. How flattering.

I might even blush if not for the sheer impossibility of the idea. First, no one alive knows the Ice Truck Killer's relation to the Bay Harbor Butcher except me. Second, I can't afford to play games even if someone did. Last night, I made a promise to my dear foster sister. I vowed to help her dispose of this monster, and I can only assume she means sans plastic wrap and kill tools.

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Debra Morgan debriefs the team with an admirable level of evenness considering the circumstances. Chin up, in a somewhat forced, yet steady, voice, she explains how the case mirrors her ex-fiancé's MO amidst her co-workers who are well aware of her romantic past and her foster brother who likewise dismembers bodies in his spare time. I think it helps that she pointedly ignores my presence.<p>

"This is a high priority because if his MO matches ITKs, it means he likely plans to kill again. So let's catch this mother fucker before he gets another shot," Deb concludes with her signature, expletive flourish.

I follow the herd as the room begins to clear out, but Deb reels me in before I can slip away. She summons Masuka too.

"Masuka, I want Dex to take the role of lead forensics investigator on this case," she informs us, to both of our surprise.

Masuka nods deferentially, but his mouth tightens into a thin line. He looks visibly stung, and I can't blame him. "Deb, I can try to help out, but there's no blood. This is really more Vince's territory," I protest, defending the shiny-headed, little man's honor. Technically, I'm lying. This crime scene could not be any closer to my area of expertise. But I'd rather not broadcast my knowledge about these particular nighttime activities. Daytime Dexter is just a humble blood spatter analyst.

"Listen, it's nothing personal," Deb says, with an uncharacteristic amount of tact. "You do great work, Masuka, you really do. But I need someone focused on this case one hundred and ten percent."

I fully expect Masuka to put up a fight. But he doesn't. "Damn, you can tell, can't you?" He sighs in defeat. "I should've never accepted the position as a volunteer professor. It's a big commitment, but I can't quit now. We're already halfway through the semester, and the students can't get enough of me," he says hopelessly.

Deb nods solemnly. "Don't worry about it. We admire your commitment to the community," she says very seriously, before winking at me and then averting her eyes, blushing.

Nevertheless, Masuka doesn't miss an opportunity to make the situation even more awkward before he turns to leave. "Say Dexter, many of my pupils are interested in hot juices, and I don't mean the sexy kind. You wouldn't mind dropping by as a guest speaker sometime next week, would you?"

"He would love to," Deb answers for me, as she nudges him out the door. Masuka departs with a satisfied smirk, leaving the two Morgans notably alone in the briefing room.

Deb slugs me in the shoulder a little too hard. "There. It's official," she says, self-satisfied. "Your on this investigation now."

And just like that the final piece falls into place, and thickheaded, emotionally brain-dead Dexter at last understands. Deb didn't take a leap of faith in me because of my hokey personality or even my admirable steak-cooking abilities. She took a leap of faith in me because of my deadly detective skills. It's no coincidence that she's placed me on the case that reminds us of Brian. She wants my Dark Passenger to track down this Moser brother admirer so she can hand our playmate over to Lady Justice. Should I feel used and abused? Or, should I feel thankful? Like Harry, it appears she's devised a plan to square me away.

* * *

><p>When I return to my office, I find a young man wearing a cardigan hovering over my desk.<p>

I ask the obvious question. "What are you doing here, Louis?"

Louis Greene is slow to tare his eyes away from the photos on my desk, but his expression quickly changes the second he does. "Hey Dexter," he says brightly, with an annoyingly cheerful grin, "I'm just dropping off a blood report. Masuka let me help him with it since you weren't feeling well yesterday. It's from DDK's crime scene."

"Right," I say tonelessly.

"Of course, I'm not an expert like you," Louis adds modestly, "but I thought it looked pretty clean-cut. A clear suicide, I mean."

I nod. "That's what I've heard. But I'll make sure it gets to the Captain. Thanks." I extend my hand for the blood report, but he deliberately sets it down on my desk instead, disturbing my meticulously arranged crime scene collage. I clench my jaw.

"Hey, what's this?" Louis asks curiously, as if noticing the stills of dismembered body parts for the first time.

"A different case," I say shortly. "Listen, Louis, as much as I'd enjoy discussing blood work with you, I've actually got some serious work to get done today."

"Okay, sure," Louis complies. He turns to leave, but then changes his mind. "I've just got one last question for you, Dexter. How can you tell if a crime scene has been doctored?"

"What?" If I had a heart, it might skip a beat right now. But I am confident that I don't, and I am also certain that I left no trace behind.

I raise my eyebrows. "Is this another idea for a video game?"

His ice blue eyes hold mine for a beat. Then his face breaks into another annoyingly cheerful grin. "Yeah, something like that," he concedes, with a carefree laugh. "See you around, Dexter."

* * *

><p>I stab at a spinach salad with a fork as I silently contemplate every impulsive decision, minuet and momentous, I've made in the last 48 hours. For example, right now screwing Quinn yesterday seems relatively minute in the grand scheme of things. <em>Because I let a murderer run free.<em> I took credit for a fake crime scene. And I didn't even punish Dex. In fact, I practically promoted him, with a revoltingly girlish _wink_. Am I fucking brain dead?

I shake my head. My brain is working just fine. For the first time, I am actually starting to see the world around me clearly. I will always love Dex. Even if he sliced up Travis Marshall with a fucking grin on his face, he's still the only family I have left. He's still my dumb, big foster brother, and he's all I've got.

Despite the gruesome details, what happened the other night I can learn to accept. I've killed on the job before without feeling an ounce of remorse. Hell, I even let Number 13 and her companion get away with serial murder, because I can also understand as well as anyone what it means to feel broken. Who was I to deny her peace of mind after all she'd been through?

But there is one thing I simply can't accept: Dex can't lie to me anymore. I am certain that DDK wasn't his first kill. It's not just because I bleed blue. A part of me knows—has always known, even before I became a cop—that there's more to Dex than meets the eye.

* * *

><p>"Hey!" I holler, sliding open the kitchen window. The neighbor's dog's ears perk up, but he's only silent for a moment before he resumes his incessant yapping. I bang on the windowsill over the sink in frustration. "Shut the fuck up!" I demand, practicing my authoritative, future cop voice.<p>

"Debra!" My father's authoritative, _real _cop voice voice enters the kitchen, and I swing around to find him frowning at me disapprovingly, his armed crossed. He's dressed in his pressed, blue uniform, which can only mean he'll soon be off to fight crime and kill some bad guys. But first he reaches over my shoulder to rinse out his empty coffee mug in the sink. "Watch your language, young lady."

"Sorry," I say, reluctantly. I glare accusingly at Dex as I return to my seat at the breakfast table. Why hadn't he warned me that Dad had come downstairs? Dex returns my look with an innocent shrug before he spears a piece of ham with his knife.

"It's just the d-dang dog won't ever shut up," I explain in a small voice, "and the doctor said Mom needs her rest."

As if to emphasize my point, the dog starts to howl at the invisible, daytime moon. My father shuts the kitchen window, but it does little to shield the noise.

He finishes drying the mug with a towel before turning around with a response. His expression has softened considerably, and I can almost see the defeated pain hiding behind his eyes. "I know, darling," Dad agrees, "but we've talked about this before. There's nothing we can do about Mr. Erickson's dog."

Yet, I know he's talking about more than the dog. I resist the urge to burst into tears because I'm not a baby anymore.

My father puts the mug back in its proper place before he kisses Dex and I goodbye on the head. "You two behave yourselves today, all right? I won't be home until late." I notice that Dex and he share one of their special looks. "We'll go hunting next weekend, son, I promise," he assures him. He gives Dex's shoulder an extra squeeze before he departs.

As soon as the front door latches closed, I round on my foster brother, suddenly furious at everything about him.

"Do you even love her?" I question.

"What?" he asks as calm and clueless as can be. A piece of egg, halfway en route to his mouth, hangs comically from his fork.

"Do you even love her?" I repeat. "Do you even care that she's sick?"

Dex puts down his fork and knife and at last cuts his attention from his meal. He searches my face as if looking for some hint at the proper response. He's never been very good at expressing emotions, so I realize it's not really fair for me to start attacking him now. But I could honestly care less at this point.

"Deb, she's our mom," he says, finally. "Of course, I care," he explains matter-of-factly, as if referencing the laws of the Morgan Family Rulebook.

"No, she's _my_ mom," I correct him scathingly, "not yours. You're adopted. There's no rule that says you have to love her just because Dad brought you home to live with us."

Dex opens his mouth and then shuts it again, clearly confounded. I continue to glare at him. The faint sound of the wretched dog barking and growling at god knows what punctuates the silence.

Then, his mouth sets into a determined, straight line, and his eyes darken. "Don't worry, Deb. I will get him to stop barking."

Dex disappears outside that afternoon and the dog is silent by suppertime. My mother sleeps soundly that night. I don't even care to ask how he did it, because, at the time, that doesn't seem like what truly matters. He had become my hero that day, and maybe I've been blinded ever since.

* * *

><p>Until now. I stare down at my lunch, revolted by the bitter smell of my vinaigrette salad dressing.<p>

He _will_ tell me the whole truth.

* * *

><p>The next break in the case comes in the late evening when Deb is pushing papers across her desk.<p>

I join her and Masuka as he delivers the shocking update from the lab because I am, after all, now the lead forensics investigator. "I just got the ID back on yesterday's vic," he announces. "His name is – or was – Carl Wilson."

It's an utterly ordinary name and shouldn't impress me in the slightest. Yet, for some reason, it rings a bell, and my Dark Passenger sends a cold shiver up my spine.

"So? Who is the poor bastard?" Deb asks, sliding to the edge of her seat.

"He was just a high school science teacher with high blood pressure," Masuka informs us, anticlimactically. "But here's the clincher: he wasn't murdered. He died about a week and a half ago. Of a heart attack. His body has been in the morgue since the night before last."

My Dark Passenger disappears in disgust, along with my mistake admiration for my newfound friend.

"Which means his body must've been stolen from the morgue," Deb concludes, "before being cut up and laid out at by our perp at the crime scene."

"Exactly," Masuka confirms. He turns to pat me on shoulder consolingly. "Sorry, Dex. You can't be the lead forensics investigator anymore. This case doesn't belong in Homicide. It's just a regular ole' steal-and-defile-a-cadaver offense."

I can't say who looks more crestfallen: Deb or I. But then Deb answers my question for me.

"Out of my effing way!" she commands as she pushes past us to the ladies room, apparently physically sickened by her decision to spare Disturbed Dexter so that he could catch her a disturbed delinquent.

* * *

><p>An hour later, I sense it's finally safe to knock on Deb's door with a container full of fresh chicken noodle soup in a gesture of goodwill. But she doesn't answer. So I find the spare key, hidden under her doormat like a convenient plot cliché, and let myself in.<p>

I locate Deb in her living room. Arms wrapped around her knees, she sits on her couch staring down an untouched six-pack on her coffee table.

"How are you feeling?" I ask cautiously.

Deb refuses to break her staring contest with the six-pack as she answers me. "I need to know that you will tell me the whole truth," she says. Her voice sounds hoarse as though she's just screamed her lungs out.

"Okay," I agree, uncomfortable with where this is headed.

"Do you promise you'll answer all of my questions honestly?" she presses, eyes still locked on the prize.

"Deb, I-" She cuts across me as her eyes move to meet mine. They are bloodshot.

"Because I need to be able to trust you. You're all I have, Dex. And I don't know if I can face this without you."

I nod, settling down next to her on the couch while maintaining eye contact. Although I may have made mockery of the concept, I've always admired honesty. I revered the way my friend, the artist, displayed his work in broad daylight just as I was once impressed by my brother. Despite my personal desires, I've forced myself to hide from everyone, except Harry, my whole life. Maybe Harry was right; maybe it was for the better. But it's too late now. Harry even said it himself. Deb will inevitably uncover my darkest secrets; it's only a matter of time. So what's the harm in telling her my side of the story first?

I lay out my palms on my lap. "Ask me anything."

But she doesn't ask me anything. Instead, she reveals a secret of her own: "I ate a fucking _spinach_ salad for lunch today. And I fucking hate spinach."

"Oh."

"I'm pregnant."


End file.
